Rising above me
painted in red: a doorway
I peer through, my gaze
consumed by the void and
its paper-thin frame.
The colours and lines shift
and now I'm looking through a window
staring with longing at the horizonless
fields of nothing on the other side
of an imaginary pane.
Still my soul blows a self-protective glass.
And so the window narrows to thin shafts
of teasing light like prison bars.
I'm trapped in a cage of numbers
and names and "aren't they the seasons?"
"All look the same to me!"
I hear you rolling in your grave.
Like arrow-slits on castle walls
or wounds -
not the neat razor lines of self-harm
but the rough-edged gashes of nail-
embedded whip lashes that somehow sit well
with all these doors and windows, being,
as they are, another kind of entry point.
But every entrance is also an exit
through which someone else can make their entrance
into this world, our world,
the world of the observer.
Reborn in colour and shade through
a door frame elastic and b